


In my Life

by mornmeril



Series: Kink Meme Fills/Prompt Me [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Kink Meme, M/M, Minor Character Death, Prompt Fill, Role Reversal, Romance, not E or R though, or as happy as can be anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:24:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mornmeril/pseuds/mornmeril
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>fill for this prompt from the Les Mis Kink Meme:</p>
<p>
  <i>An au where Fantine has a son instead of a daughter, one who inherits her beautiful blonde hair. And colonel Pontmercy's son is considerably less dorky and much more cynical, not too mention he is much more fond of alcohol than of Napoleon. Yes you got that right, I requesting au with Enjolras and Grantaire in roles of Marius and Cosette.</i>
</p>
<p>- which also incidentally kind of filled this one:</p>
<p>
  <i>So, for some weird, weird reason, I want a roleswap AU. (...) Or, Cosette is a girl pretending to be a boy so she can start a revolution and Marius is that cynical guy with a crappy family and a slight drinking problem, who basically only joined because of Cosette's passion and now he's freaking out, because, shit, he's attracted to a boy. (...)</i>
</p>
<p>(links to full prompts inside!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In my Life

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so once again, a story managed to get away from me and this ended up much longer than planned. I'm not even sorry, though, because I had so much fun writing it!
> 
> Now, just as an additional word of warning: I tried to keep Enjolras and Grantaire as much IC as I possibly could, but keep in mind that their background is completely different than in canon and the point is, after all, to put them in Marius and Cosette's places so obviously there are some parallels.
> 
> OPs, if you happen to see this, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Link to the [first prompt is here](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11823.html?thread=3893295#t3893295/) (from Round 3) and link to the [second prompt is here](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11667.html?thread=1656979#t1656979/) (from Round 2).
> 
> Title obviously taken from the Les Mis soundtrack, because I'm hopeless when it comes to titles XD!

* * *

**In my Life**

**Enjolras**

_Their eyes find each other in the crowd of people and the world seems to stop for a moment._

_The books in Enjolras’ hands seem suddenly heavy, unwieldy, and he has to tighten his grip on them, feeling the edges digging into his palms. A head obscures his vision for just a moment and Enjolras hastily steps aside, changing the angle until blue eyes meet his again from across the street. His heart is leaping in his chest, pounding against his ribcage and he does not know why. He means to look away, but he cannot._

_“Enjolras!”_

_At his father’s cry, Enjolras finally breaks free from the strange spell and turns sharply, the tone of his voice enough to alarm him. His father is at his side in an instant, gripping his arm with a strong hand and leading him away. The crowd around them is aflutter, murmuring and dispersing as quickly as they can. “Javert” they whisper and Enjolras’ heart, which had just been pounding so wildly a moment ago, freezes in terror at the familiar name. A name they had been running from ever since he was a boy, the inspector’s shadow never too far from their heels._

_His father is pale beside him, but his grip does not falter as he tugs Enjolras away. Behind them, the crowd falls silent as Inspector Javert demands answers._

_Enjolras turns his head, foolish in his impulsiveness but unable to stop himself, and barely manages to catch sight of widened blue eyes and a green waistcoat, before his father urges him around the next corner._

_*_

Enjolras was torn from his thoughts by his father’s voice saying his name. Thoughts filled with intense blue eyes and dark hair barely tamed enough to look presentable. His heart was, once more, beating in a strange rhythm and the confusion did nothing to tame his fiery temper. His father often despaired of him, Enjolras knew, claiming there was no reasoning with him once a mood had seized him. Enjolras cared little for such talk as it served only to make him feel treated even more like the child his father still saw in him.

“Enjolras,” said Papa once more, taking a seat across from him at the table. “You are very quiet today, my son. Is there something that worries you?”

Enjolras did not raise his eyes from the book he had been trying to read for the past two hours, instead frowning down at its pages. Even if his concentration had not been suffering already, the words would have little success in capturing his interest. Since Enjolras had managed to get his hands on one of Rousseau’s works last winter, he had been striving to read more on the subject. Sadly, his father had found the small volume before Enjolras had the chance to finish it and had given his son a severe tongue lashing for his thoughtlessness. They could not be caught with banned literature, his father had told him angrily, no matter how true or well-worded.

For the sake of his father, Enjolras had stopped himself from digging too deeply, lest he bring trouble upon them. That did not mean he would not immediately read more of it, should he come across further banned literature. It was only another sign of oppression that there even was such a thing as ‘banned literature’. No man’s ideas should be silenced so harshly, whether wrong or right. Surely there would be something to learn from them either way? Enjolras knew his father did not disagree, knew that little moved him more than the plight of the poor. But his father was a man of god first and foremost, a path Enjolras had come to think of as rather passive and lacking autonomy.

Still, Papa was a good man and there were still many things Enjolras did not know, a fact which often forced him to grudgingly defer to his father’s judgement.

“You are such a lonely child,” Papa went on and Enjolras finally met his concerned gaze. “I wish it were not so. You must be tired to have only me for company.”

“You are not at fault, Papa,” replied Enjolras, closing the book, his palm lingering on the binding for a moment. “I only wish you would share with me the secrets you have been guarding so close all these years. I know nothing of the man you used to be; before I became your son.”

His father’s features had darkened, his expression becoming shuttered and distant. Enjolras loathed that look on him.

“Enjolras, you know I cannot speak of this with you.”

Enjolras pressed his lips into a thin line, his brow furrowing in displeasure. “Why do you not trust me? I am no longer a child and I wish to know the truth. I have a right to it!”

His father rose, abruptly and Enjolras knew he had pushed too far. He had never been a good judge of when to leave well enough alone, it was another trait his father had so often tried to rid him of. Patience, he always said, was a virtue.

“No more words,” said Papa sternly. “This discussion is over. Some things are better left in the past, Enjolras, and you will learn that truth is given to us all by god in our time, in our turn.”

Enjolras rose as well, unwilling to yet drop the subject - or at least not to leave it like this, with such discord between them - but his father knew him well and gave him not the time to respond. He quit the room in a few swift strides and fled to his own, leaving Enjolras to glare in his wake.

Infuriated at once again being treated as though he was still just a boy stumbling around in the woods of Montfermeil, Enjolras quit the room also, seeking instead to cool his ire by stepping out into the garden. He breathed in the fresh air untainted by the smell of hot wax and took a few more steps outside. Dusk had barely fallen, the shadows of the trees starting to lengthen in anticipation of the night and most of the mild summer day driven away by the evening chill. Enjolras regretted not having grabbed his jacket, but was loath to return to his stifling rooms so soon.

Something moved on the other side of the fence and Enjolras hesitated, squinting into the waning light. A rustle of fabric, and then the form of a man came into view, the light barely enough for Enjolras to catch a glimpse of a green waistcoat. He was at the fence in but a few strides.

Bright blue eyes looked back at him through the iron bars.

Enjolras had trouble tearing his gaze away long enough to throw a quick glance over his shoulder, ensuring that his father was still locked in his room. When he turned back, the other man was close enough for Enjolras to touch should he choose to reach out. Instead, he curled his fingers towards his palms.

“How did you find me?” said Enjolras, breathless even to his own ears. It was infuriating to have confirmed the power this stranger seemed to have over him.

The other man’s lips twitched, his expression caught between smugness and something that looked rather a lot like reverence. Enjolras hoped he did not look like that, though he feared he would soon lose the fight if the stranger should choose to come any closer.

“I have my ways,” he said, mindful of the volume of his voice so not as to draw attention to them. “I did not get the chance to ask your name this morning.”

Enjolras did his best to ignore his racing heart. “Why would you want it?”

The stranger took another step, so close now that he was almost pressed against the fence, so close that Enjolras could feel his warm breath on his face. It smelt faintly of sweet wine and, for an insane moment, Enjolras wondered whether his lips would taste of it as well.

“I wish to know whether it matches your beautiful face,” said the man, his eyes alight with both adoration and a gentle teasing that threatened to flood Enjolras’ cheeks with heat.

He fought the urge vehemently, instead sought to steady himself on the fence and curled his fingers around the cool iron. It brought them dangerously close to the stranger’s mouth.

“Do you think me so easily flattered?” said Enjolras, doing his best to sound as cool and collected as always. He tilted his chin upwards in defiance, an action that always drove his father mad.

The stranger looked at him intently, his tongue wetting his lips in a gesture that looked purely innocent, but succeeded in finally sending unbidden heat to Enjolras’ face.

“I do not seek to flatter you, I would not dare. Flattery is reserved for men in pursuit of loose women and easy pleasures.”

Enjolras could feel that his cheeks were aflame, but he refused to back down and the glare he bestowed upon the other man was no less fiery than the heat pooling in his stomach.

“Are you not such a man, then?” asked Enjolras, wishing for it to sound terse, but only succeeding in sounding faintly expectant.

The other man shifted slightly, his breath now hot on Enjolras’ hand. “If I ever was, then I ceased to be the moment I saw you,” he said. “From now on my attention shall be yours alone.” And with that, he leaned in close and brushed his lips against Enjolras’ fingers in a fleeting caress.

Enjolras gasped, unprepared for the spark that shot all the way from his fingers, up his arm and down his spine. He yanked his hand away, his skin alight with the feeling of the other man’s mouth still lingering, and thought he must surely perish from the heat any moment.

“You should not make such promises lightly,” snapped Enjolras, angered at the notion that he did not know what to do. Angered, even more, by the fact that he was enjoying this so much and wished for more.

“It was not done lightly at all,” the other man said immediately, pinning Enjolras with a fierce look. “But I have no problem proving it to you for as long as it takes until you believe me. I am not in the habit of letting things go once I have staked claim on them.”

Enjolras should not find this so arousing, nevertheless, his body disagreed. 

“You have no claim on me yet, Monsieur.” Too late did he realise what had sprung from his mouth.

The stranger smiled at him, white teeth glinting in the ever dimming light. “Not yet, no, though I hope you will permit me to change that in time,” he said softly. “And my name is Grantaire.”

Enjolras suppressed the urge to repeat it simply as an excuse to wrap his lips around the syllables and weigh it in his mouth, and instead, against all his better judgement, returned his hand to the fence. He gripped tightly, to conceal a small tremor. “Enjolras.”

Grantaire’s smile did not falter and he placed his own hand next to Enjolras’, their fingers barely brushing together. Enjolras shivered, but did not withdraw this time.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire repeated, seemingly for the same reason Enjolras had denied himself and turned his name into a caress that had only more heat sparking beneath Enjolras’ skin. “It suits you.”

Enjolras said nothing and scowled, though he knew his heart was not in it.

Grantaire’s eyes flickered skywards briefly, before coming to rest once more on Enjolras. “The hour is growing late. I fear I must depart. There is a meeting I have to attend today.”

Enjolras frowned as a spark of something intense and unpleasant tightened his chest, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “And what sort of meeting is this? Are you already forgetting your promise and wish to return to loose women and easy pleasures instead?”

To Enjolras’ utmost displeasure, this only succeeded in forcing a laugh from Grantaire. The look, however, must not have been lost on the other man, for before Enjolras could become any more ill humoured, Grantaire covered his hand with his own warm one and pressed it gently.

“I assure you it is not like that at all,” said he, amusement still alight in his eyes but now mixed with tenderness. “It is not a matter of entertainment, I fear. My friends are meeting to discuss politics.”

Enjolras did nothing to withdraw his hand, instead shifting his fingers into a more intimate position and sliding them between Grantaire’s. “Politics you say? Are you in favour of a revolution, then?”

Grantaire’s expression darkened and Enjolras could not help but find it just as attractive as the smile he had seen before.

“I am in favour of the world being a better place,” he said gravely. “But I fear it is an idea that will forever stay a dream and nothing more, for as long as the world is home to man it is bound to stay as merciless and unjust as it is today.”

Enjolras frowned, both angered and saddened in the face of such bleakness.

“Such nihilism will not aid you in changing the world for the better,” said Enjolras, his conviction ringing true even through the quietness of his words. “People can be strong when they stand together. If you do not think so, why go to the meeting at all?”

Grantaire sighed. “I may not be an optimist, but I am still a good friend and I promised to be there.” He fell silent for a moment, gazing at Enjolras’ hand in his and tracing another caress into his skin. Enjolras’ grip tightened reflexively, the soft touch sending another tremor through his body. “And I wish to be wrong. I do. I fear for my friends and where their patriotic passions will lead them.”

Enjolras regarded him silently through the iron spirals, weighing his options and trying to determine the chance of success should he be mad enough to follow the plan that had so suddenly sprung from his mind.

“Where is this meeting you speak of?”

Grantaire looked at him searchingly. “At the Café Musain, not far from here.”

Enjolras pushed the air from his lungs and made his decision.

“I will come with you.”

Grantaire’s eyes widened. “Enjolras, these meetings are against the law, surely-”

Enjolras clenched his jaw. “I care not for the law. I wish to come with you.”

“But your father-”

“Is still locked in his room and likely will be so for the rest of the night. We had a fight before you arrived.” Enjolras took in the concern on Grantaire’s face and relented slightly. “I cannot stay for long, my father must not know I have gone. An hour at most. Do you not wish for my company?”

Grantaire shook his head. “You know there is nothing more I could wish for.” He looked at Enjolras, openly adoring. “If you are sure, I will not deny you.”

Enjolras smiled slightly, the first one he permitted himself.

“But this gate is locked, surely you do not have the key?” Grantaire eyed the sturdy lock with doubt.

Enjolras pressed his hand one last time, before releasing it.

“I have not. But I shall manage without it.”

“Without- Enjolras!” Grantaire hissed upon witnessing Enjolras grabbing the iron bars above himself and finding purchase with first one foot, then the other, before starting a steady climb over the fence.

It was not as easy as it looked, and Enjolras feared he would slip more than once, but he successfully made it to the top and over, before starting a slightly shaky decent on the other side. His hands were slightly slippery with sweat and some of the chipped paint had managed to tear his soft hands that were so unused to manual labour. By the time Grantaire grasped his waist to help him down, his brow was damp and a few golden strands were stuck to his forehead. Enjolras brushed them aside and briefly tugged at the bow at the nape of his neck to tighten it around his hair.

“You are mad,” said Grantaire, but it was with a voice full of breathless admiration.

Enjolras straightened his clothes. “Shall we?”

Grantaire shook his head, but gallantly offered his arm. Enjolras rolled his eyes, but took it and they set off along the darkened streets of Paris.

They had hardly cleared the first, however, when a shadow detached itself from one of the buildings only to become a man that easily fell into step beside Grantaire.

“I see you have found each other, then,” said the man with a grin. His clothes were dirty, but his face handsome and the curve of his mouth charming. “Cosette will not approve, you realise?”

The bitter taste was suddenly back on Enjolras’ tongue. “Who is Cosette?” he snapped.

The newcomer gifted him with an amused glance and had the nerve to cackle slightly. “Jealous already?”

Enjolras gave a fierce glare in return, but Grantaire interjected before a proper argument could start.

“Courfeyrac,” he addressed the stranger. “You are far too involved in other people’s business.”

“It is exactly that fact which helped in finding the man that caught you ‘in a moment of breathless delight’,” said Courfeyrac, his grin turning slightly evil.

Grantaire flushed scarlet and Enjolras frowned, not sure he followed.

“As to Cosette,” Courfeyrac went on. “She is our fearless leader.”

Grantaire smiled faintly. “Do not let her hear you say that. You know how she dislikes being referred to as our leader.”

“Your leader is a woman?” asked Enjolras, bewildered and delighted at the same time. There was far too little equality in all areas of life, this was positive news indeed.

“Well,” said Courfeyrac. “She certainly didn’t start out that way. Cosette went by her last name for a long time and dresses like a man. She could not have rallied the people as a woman, but a month or two ago there was a…shall we say mishap and it was finally revealed that she is, indeed, a woman. Now, the ones closest to her already knew, me and Grantaire included, but most others did not. A lot of them still don’t, but she has earned the respect of the men over the years. The shock was great, but thankfully hardly lost her any followers.”

Intrigued, Enjolras leaned slightly closer to Courfeyrac, which resulted in pressing himself against Grantaire’s side. Grantaire did not protest, instead taking the opportunity to seek even more closeness. Enjolras did not object, caught in the discussion about the leader. Despite the frantic moving around from one place to the next and the few glimpses of Javert over the years, Enjolras’ life was hardly exciting. Papa made sure that he stayed hidden, telling him he was hardly a face to be dismissed or forgotten, and practically locked Enjolras away in the fear that anything could happen to him. Often Enjolras only had his books for company and the prospect of hearing of such adventures as a girl dressing up as a man to start a revolution was a thrilling prospect indeed.

“A mishap you say?” Enjolras inquired curiously. “What sort of mishap?”

Courfeyrac exchanged a look with Grantaire.

“It involves one of our friends,” Courfeyrac went on, solemnly. “Marius. He has been hopelessly in love with our dear leader for years now. Sadly, she cares not for his lonely soul and instead her focus lies solely with Patria.” He paused briefly, before slipping back into the story. “You see, Cosette asked Marius to talk to some fellow men at the Barriere du Maine, or rather, we were a man short and Marius demanded she give him the job. Sadly, when the hour came to depart, Grantaire here had spent quite some time on cheering poor Marius up - you must know he is very miserable with the situation. Unrequited love does not become him, the poor lad. Anyway, so Grantaire here knows only to raise people’s spirits with a bottle or two and our dear Marius is not an accomplished drinker like our ‘Aire. So by the time he is to depart, Marius is barely able to raise his head from the table and it was left to Grantaire to visit the Barriere du Maine in his stead. Deprived of Grantaire’s company, Marius set to find himself some others to bear his soul to and succeeded in telling about half the tavern that Cosette is a woman.”

Enjolras eyed Grantaire with a disapproving look, though his curiosity was not yet satisfied.

“What did you do at the Barriere?”

Grantaire shrugged his shoulders, looking distinctly uncomfortable beneath Enjolras’ scolding gaze.

“I talked to them as instructed, over a game or two of dominoes,” said Grantaire. “But they were hardly interested in what I had to say and we agreed that the time was spent better concentrating on the game.”

“To be fair,” said Courfeyrac. “I hardly doubt anyone could have swayed those men, short of maybe Cosette herself. But Marius, poor lad, was devastated the next morning. So you see, now you know of the opera played out in the circle of our friends each night. Oh, and here we are.”

And they were indeed.

The Café Musain was abuzz with activity, patrons and students running this way and that. Grantaire led Enjolras upstairs where weapons were being handed about and polished, the tables covered in burning candles shedding light on unfolded maps. Courfeyrac was swallowed by the crowd, vanished from sight, but Grantaire’s grip on Enjolras was solid, protective, and they made their way across the room with little difficulty. Grantaire was greeted warmly on all sides, receiving several slaps to his back and more than one boisterous call at the sight of Enjolras at his arm.

At the far end near the corner, a freckled youth was sitting with a mug of wine cradled between his palms, staring sullenly into its depths as though it held the answers to the universe.

“Marius, my friend,” called Grantaire cheerfully and reached out to warmly press his shoulder. “You look rather more sullen than usual.”

Marius raised his eyes and let loose a forlorn sigh, foregoing an answer altogether and instead reaching over to snag a bottle of wine and handing it to Grantaire.

“I saved one for you,” said he as he took a sip from his cup. “Bahorel has been in high spirits today and would have left you none had I not hidden it from him.”

“Grantaire, you’re late!” another voice called from behind them. It came from a man with a bright smile, who absently dabbed at his nose before carefully folding the handkerchief and putting it back in his pocket.

“Oooh,” boomed another, a burly man with a boisterous laugh. “And I can see why. Will you not introduce us?”

“Bahorel,” said the tall man next to him. “How many times must I remind you not to direct your shouting at my ear?”

“Yes, Grantaire,” joined in another, though it was spoken softly, the men around them instantly fell silent. “Will you not introduce us?”

Enjolras straightened his spine and met the intent gaze of a person that could only be Cosette. She was indeed dressed as a man, the sleeves of her shirt stained with ink and her golden locks tied back in a fashion very similar to Enjolras’ own. Her delicate frame did nothing to diminish the strength of her presence, her legs long and planted firmly on the ground. It was clear from her posture that she was very versed in acting the part of a man.

“I can introduce myself, Mademoiselle,” said Enjolras, not without an edge. “I’m Enjolras.”

Something flashed through Cosette’s eyes, though her countenance remained unruffled. “Formalities are unnecessary, Enjolras. We are all equals here.” She fixed Grantaire with a firm look. “Though Grantaire should know better than to distract from our goals in such a way. We have a higher cause, we cannot get distracted by boys wishing to rebel against their fathers.”

Enjolras’ eyes narrowed.

“Cosette,” Grantaire gritted out between his teeth, still warm against Enjolras’ side. “Enjolras is our guest.”

Cosette relented slightly, her gaze softening. “Of course. Please, if you will excuse me, there are some matters that require my attention.” And with that she turned on her heel and retreated to one of the tables, joining another tall man with glasses and another person in man’s clothing that Enjolras suspected to be a woman as well.

Marius gazed after her with glazed eyes.

Grantaire reached for Enjolras’ hand and Enjolras gave it willingly, trying his best not to flush as Grantaire brought it to his lips for a soft kiss.

“You must forgive her,” murmured Grantaire. “The preparations are taking their toll.”

Enjolras cast a look around the room, something heavy knotting his stomach that felt very much like dread.

“I admire very much what you do,” said Enjolras, careful to keep his voice pitched for Grantaire’s ears only. “But I fear for you. The people may seem desperate for change, but they might not be ready for another revolution so soon. I believe there is need for one, very much so, but if the people do not rise to stand together, there is a great chance you may lose your lives.”

Grantaire sighed and took a drag from the wine Marius had handed him earlier. “Believe me, I have tried to tell her as much, but Cosette is not to be swayed. I know not how she can put her faith in people in such a way.”

Enjolras looked over to where Cosette was leaning over the maps, the brown-haired boy with the delicate features that Enjolras suspected to be a woman, was nodding at something the bespectacled man was saying beside her.

“I understand her conviction,” said Enjolras quietly. “I merely fear that the timing is not right.” 

Torn from his morose thoughts by his own words, Enjolras hastened to retrieve his pocket watch. The night was growing late and he had almost been gone an hour already.

“I must go,” he said to Grantaire, snapping the watch shut once more. “I cannot risk my father finding out my absence.”

Grantaire did not look pleased, but he nodded. “I wish I could walk you back myself, but Cosette will have my head. Courfeyrac will escort you, his brother has yet to show so he can spare the few minutes to see you home safely.”

Enjolras gave him a sharp look. “I hardly need an escort. I am more than capable of defending myself.”

Completely unfazed by Enjolras’ annoyance, Grantaire instead gave him an amused smile. “I would not doubt it for a second,” he said, pressing Enjolras’ hand. “But for the sake of my own weak disposition, will you let yourself be escorted by Courfeyrac? It will ease my mind greatly, otherwise I might have to come by myself once the meeting has concluded to ascertain that you are sound asleep in your bed.”

Enjolras let loose an exasperated huff, his cheeks heating anew. “I will not go alone if the thought bothers you so greatly. You may visit me again on the morrow. In fact, I expect it. I seem to recall you promising me all your attention.”

Grantaire smiled adoringly at him and Enjolras could not fight an answering twitch of his mouth.

“Nothing shall keep me from you,” swore Grantaire. “I shall see you tomorrow, bright and early.”

Somewhere outside, past the hustle and bustle of the café, Notre Dame’s belles chimed the full hour and Enjolras was seized by the urgency to return home. He would never forgive himself should Papa find out he is missing, it would surely devastate him.

“I must away,” said Enjolras hastily. “I will see you tomorrow.”

Grantaire hastened to press another kiss to Enjolras’ hand. “Tomorrow.”

Just as he was about to turn and go, Enjolras hesitated. With swift fingers, he had unhooked his watch-chain and pressed it into Grantaire’s palm along with his pocket-watch. It had been a gift from Papa when he had turned eighteen barely a year ago and had his name engraved on the inside. Enjolras could not explain the whim and he had not the time to examine it further.

“Take this,” he said. “So you will not be late tomorrow as you were today.”

Grantaire looked stunned. “Enjolras-”

Enjolras gave him a smile and pressed his hand one last time, before finally quitting the café with quick strides. Courfeyrac fell easily into step beside him once more, undoubtedly at some sign of Grantaire’s, but made no attempt at engaging Enjolras in a conversation as he had before. Time was of the essence and talk would have only slowed them down.

They made it back in record time and Enjolras took the still locked gate and the quietness of the house as a sign that his father had indeed not come looking for him just yet. Getting back across the fence was even harder than earlier in the evening, but Enjolras managed it just the same, even though he admittedly missed Grantaire’s hands about his waist.

As if on cue, his father’s voice drifted out into the garden.

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras bid Courfeyrac a hasty and silent goodbye, before quickly making his way over to his father.

“Enjolras, what are you doing?” Papa demanded. “I told you to stay inside. Come now. Are you still not dressed for bed?”

Enjolras attempted his best innocent expression. “Forgive me, Papa. I lost track of time. It is a nice evening outside.”

His father softened and gave Enjolras’ arm an affectionate squeeze. “I had not realised the lateness of the hour myself. Let us lock up for tonight.”

Once back in his room, Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief and set to changing into his nightclothes. He felt exhausted after the events of today, unused to going through such a wild range of emotions, least of all as intense as the ones Grantaire had woken in him. It was hardly fathomable that they had only met for the first time this morning. It all seemed so far away now, as though they had already known each other for weeks at least. If not longer.

Enjolras gazed at his hand, remembering the feeling of Grantaire’s lips on his skin and feeling a shiver race down his spine at the memory. If such an innocent touch was enough to set him so aflame, what would a touch of Grantaire’s mouth against his own feel like? Enjolras sank down on his bed, feeling foolish, but also elated in a way he had never thought possible of himself. If he could, he would likely run all the way back to the Musain simply to steal a kiss, to learn what other emotions he was capable of that he never knew even existed let alone inside his own body.

A cry from outside cut through his warm thoughts like a knife. He leapt from the bed in alarm. It had been a man’s voice. Courfeyrac?

“Enjolras!” his father burst into the room.

“I’m fine, Papa,” Enjolras was quick to reassure. “It was not I.”

His father was frantic, his face drained of any colour. “Must be Javert,” he muttered to himself as he quickly checked the windows. Enjolras doubted he would be able to see anything in the pitch-black.

“He must have found our cover at last,” Papa went on. “We need to quit these rooms. We shall go to our apartment at Rue de l’Homme Arme, it’s safer there. And tomorrow I shall arrange our passage to England. Hurry, Enjolras!”

Enjolras was frozen to the spot, feet unwilling to co-operate. 

“No, Papa,” said Enjolras, his voice never having sounded as pleading as it did that moment.

“Say no more, pack a bag and quickly!”

“But, Papa, we cannot-”

His father grasped his arms, not unkindly but with a firm edge. “Now, Enjolras. We must leave now, _do you understand_?”

Enjolras’ teeth hurt from the force of which he clenched his jaw, but he knew nothing he said would have any impact on his father when he was like this, panicked and ready to run. Instead, he focused his energy on penning a quick letter and dashing outside to leave it at the fence, pinning it safely between the iron spirals. 

It was the only thing left behind that night. That and Enjolras’ heart, leaving only a hollow ache where it had once been beating to fervently.

***

**Grantaire**

_In the light of morning, the garden looks different, giving every flower, every tree a sharper edge than the night before. Grantaire does not know why, but dread is already pooling in his stomach when he reaches the fence where he stood only yesterday with Enjolras’ fierce eyes boring into him._

_Today, the gate is unlocked and this fact alone is enough to warn his heart of the blow that is to follow._

_The house is empty, wiped of any trace that it had been inhabited at all. Grantaire pounds on the door, more out of desperation than to gain entrance, for he already knows that no one will open it for him. He tries to look in the windows, but they are shuttered. He walks around the house once, twice, but gives up this senseless pursuit in favour of sinking down onto the first step of the front door._

_There is no comfort in it, no comfort at all. Grantaire doubts he will ever find comfort again and wishes for nothing more than a bottle to drown his sorrows in. Surely Marius would welcome the company. Surely he would be happy to know that he was no longer the only one left with the pieces of his heart and unable to find a way to fit them together once more._

_It is only with that thought alone, the thought of sharing his misery and drowning in the bittersweet oblivion of drink, that he heaves himself from the porch and makes his way back to the Musain. His fingers find the pocket-watch in his waistcoat, warm from where he kept it close to his body ever since receiving it last night, and close around it so tightly that his muscles are left aching._

_It seems so heavy now, this little piece of jewellery, heavy enough to slow his steps and press his shoulders into a slump. But Grantaire does not let go, not even a moment._

_*_

Grantaire eyed Marius from the side and deftly plucked the bottle from his fingers. His friend made a sound of protest, but made no move to retrieve it, most likely aware that he should not over-indulge at the foot of the barricade awaiting a fire-fight with the national guard.

Cosette, Eponine and Combeferre had settled a few feet away, Joly and Bossuet were seated on the edge of an old mattress sticking out from the barricade and Feuilly and Bahorel were lounging on Marius’ other side. Jehan and Courfeyrac had gone inside to look for some bread and cheese for the people, the hour was growing late and they needed to keep up their strength if they were to survive an attack.

The piano forte at his side was digging into Grantaire’s ribs and he shifted slightly as he brought the bottle he had just liberated from Marius’ grasp to his own lips and drained it dry. No sooner was he done, that he heard that their spy had returned. Heaving himself up from his position, Grantaire reached down to help Marius to his feet and the others rose to follow in Cosette’s wake as she talked to the spy. A spy, that not a moment later was exposed to be none other than Inspector Javert.

The inspector put up a decent fight and managed to hit both Marius and Cosette in the resulting brawl. Marius, though it was him that sported the bleeding nose, was fussing over Cosette, asking her whether she was in pain and daring to gently touch her jaw to test it for injury. Cosette, for once, let Marius do as he pleased and held still beneath the examination.

They were interrupted when the distinct sound of marching feet reached their ears.

Grantaire felt immediately on edge and it must have been the same for his friends, for they all rushed outside as one. Courfeyrac handed him a gun and slotted into place by his side, his eyes briefly seeking out his brother to assure himself that Gavroche was somewhere safe and outside the range of the battle.

It did not take long for the guard to open fire and Grantaire and Courfeyrac ducked together behind the safety of a table that Grantaire recognised had once belonged to the Musain. The soilders advanced and it became very clear very quickly that should they not retreat, and soon, the barricade would not be able to withstand the attack. Grantaire quickly cast his eyes about, seeking something, anything, that could help him force an advantage. It was then that he caught sight of the barrel of gunpowder.

He turned and caught Marius’ attention, throwing him his gun and bending to retrieve the barrel. It was heavy, but Grantaire managed to find a good enough grip on it.

As always, nothing escaped Courfeyrac’s notice.

“Grantaire,” he said, a sharp edge to his voice. “Grantaire what are you doing?”

Grantaire paid him no mind, instead sought out the torch lighting their patch of the barricade.

“Grantaire!” cried Courfeyrac. He was closer now and Grantaire thought he heard Gavroche’s voice blending into the cacophony of the fight, yelling for him to watch out.

There was a shot, far too close for comfort, but Grantaire’s hand was steady when he finally brought the torch to the barrel in front of the commanding officer of the guard.

“Retreat, or I shall blow the barricade,” said Grantaire, bringing the torch dangerously close and watching the fear grow in the guard’s eyes.

“And yourself with it?” asked the guard, disbelieving.

Grantaire tilted his chin up in defiance, a gesture that instantly made him think of Enjolras. And was it not fitting, to be thinking of him so close to the end? Whether he were to die now or later, he wished Enjolras to be the last thing on his mind before darkness claimed him.

“And myself with it.”

The expression on his face must have been sufficiently determined - and possibly slightly manic - for the guard’s arm immediately shot out to sign to his men.

“Pull back,” he cried, rising to wave his arm once more. “Pull back!”

A slender hand appeared in Grantaire’s field of vision, carefully plucking the torch from his numb fingers. The torch was passed on and the hand returned, this time to his shoulder. Cosette regarded him with concern writ upon her pretty face and wrapped an arm around him to help him down from the barricade. His legs were shaking, he noted with a certain detachment, as were his hands now that the objects had been taken from him.

“What were you thinking?” one of his friends demanded, and Grantaire thought it might have been Eponine.

“You saved us,” said another, most likely Joly.

Cosette pressed his arm. “Thank you, Grantaire.”

Grantaire had hardly the presence of mind to acknowledge her, nerves still wound tight from the feel of the torch’s fire so close to his face. His brow was slick with sweat, hair sticking to his forehead and his fingers sought out the pocket-watch without thought. It was only then, that he saw Courfeyrac. He was leaning against the foot of the barricade, Gavroche at his side and a red stain growing on his chest. Grantaire was with him in an instant.

“Courfeyrac,” he said, fear clawing at him for the first time tonight. “What have you done?”

Courfeyrac gave him a grin, his teeth smeared with blood. “Don’t fret now, ‘Aire.”

Grantaire wrapped an arm around him for support, cradling Courfeyrac close to his chest.

“Gavroche, get Combeferre and Joly,” he ordered, both in the hope of getting help and to spare Gavroche the sight of his brother dying.

Gavroche scrambled to his feet, tears already spilling from his eyes and took off towards the others, his hands stained red. Grantaire looked back down.

Courfeyrac was shifting, letting loose a pained sound, one of his trembling hands trying to reach for the pocket of his jacket. Grantaire grasped it in his own to keep him still.

“No,” said Courfeyrac, his breath wheezing horribly. “There is a letter. A letter from Enjolras. He left it for you.”

Grantaire’s eyes snapped to his friend’s, a dozen words forming on his tongue but none of them forming a coherent sentence. He released Courfeyrac’s hand and reached into the indicated pocket, indeed finding a letter in its depths. Grantaire’s fingers left red marks where they touched it, the paper bent and greyed with dirt from being carried around for more than a day in Courfeyrac’s jacket.

“I kept it from you, I’m sorry. I thought-” Courfeyrac coughed and more blood spilled over, painting his lips. “It matters not what I thought. You must believe me that I meant no harm to either of you. But I was wrong. Forgive me.”

Grantaire tucked the letter safely away, sliding it into his pocket alongside the watch and grasping his friend’s hand once more. A light drizzle had started, small droplets of rain dampening their clothes and mixing with the blood.

“Think no more of it,” said Grantaire, his voice shaking with emotion. “I forgive you.”

Courfeyrac let his head fall against Grantaire’s chest, another cough shaking his body and Grantaire could feel the rain and blood drenching his shirt. He held onto his friend tightly, eyes stinging viciously.

“Do not leave me,” said Courfeyrac weakly. “I fear I might not be as brave a I thought.”

Grantaire pressed his wet face into Courfeyrac’s equally wet hair. “You are one of the bravest men I have ever known. But worry not, I shall stay with you.”

“Will you do just one thing for me?”

“Anything.”

“Look,” Courfeyrac’s voice trailed off briefly, but he caught himself and struggled to finish the sentence. “Look after Gavroche for me. When I’m gone, there will be none left to care for him. I never wished to leave him behind in a world such as this.”

Grantaire fought down a sob. “I will care for him like my own, I promise you.”

But there was no answer this time and the chest beneath his hand had stopped rising and falling, the heart ceased beating. Grantaire clutched at his friend, now openly weeping as he pressed his lips to his forehead in a parting kiss.

“I promise,” he repeated uselessly.

Combeferre and Joly, who must have been standing there for some time, stepped in to take Courfeyrac away and Cosette was once more squeezing his shoulder with her delicate hand, handing him a handkerchief to clean away some of the blood.

“We shall not forget his sacrifice,” she promised. “His death shall not be in vain.”

Grantaire could say nothing, merely nodded his head and sought the inside of the café on shaky legs. Eponine had taken it upon herself to comfort Gavroche and Grantaire was grateful for it. He did not think himself capable of it at the moment.

Grabbing a bottle on the way, Grantaire hid himself away in a corner and, in a practiced move, tugged the cork out with his teeth even as his other hand fumbled to retrieve the letter from his pocket. It had been penned in haste, this much was clear, the letters messy and smudged in some places.

Upon reaching the end, the burning in his eyes had not lessened and tears spilled over once more. He downed half the bottle in a single gulp and for a moment thought it possible that he would simply perish on the spot, struck down from a broken heart just as the romantic poetry Jehan liked to read and write so much.

With some difficulty, Grantaire rose and set out to find pen and paper. He was forced to pass the spy Javert on his way, who glared at him in spite of the noose around his neck. Grantaire spared him no mind, instead setting to quickly form a response, his chest unbearably tight with the knowledge that these words were likely to be the last he was to exchange with Enjolras.

He signed his name and lovingly penned Enjolras’ on the front, before sealing it and quitting the café, no more steady than he had entered it.

Gavroche had detangled himself from Eponine and had instead hidden away in a box at the foot of the barricade. His eyes were red, but his tears had ceased flowing and Eponine, bless her, had cleaned away the worst of the blood.

“Gavroche,” said Grantaire softly. The boy looked up at him with overly-bright eyes, his lashes sticking wetly together. “Will you do something for me?”

A nod was his only answer.

“Deliver this letter for me. But be very careful. It is a dangerous night.”

Gavroche took the letter and Grantaire dared to draw him in for a brief embrace. The boy held on tightly for a moment, before scrambling away and setting off to fulfil his task. Grantaire watched him go and took another drink.

***

**Enjolras**

_Enjolras is woken by an insistent shaking of his shoulders. He cannot have been resting more than an hour, he is sure, for the migraine that had seized him earlier has not yet gone completely. He thought sleep would not come at all, but the constant worry and the despair at not receiving an answer to his letter made Enjolras tense and this, in turn, resulted in his earlier plight. It never fails to make Enjolras feel like a swooning maiden, the likes of which constantly complained about their delicate dispositions._

_“Monsieur,” an insistent voice joins in with the shaking. “Monsieur._ Enjolras _! Wake up!”_

_Enjolras blinks and blinks again when the sudden brightness of a candle penetrates his still sensitive head. A dirty boy in tattered clothes is kneeling beside him on the bed, his hands still resting on Enjolras’ shoulders._

_“Finally!” says the boy, throwing his arms skywards in exasperation. “You sleep like the dead, Monsieur!”_

_Enjolras’ mind is reeling. “Who are you? And how did you get in here?”_

_The boy rolls his eyes as though Enjolras was behaving ridiculously by asking why a strange child is sitting on his bed._

_“Your father let me in, of course. But he has been gone a while and I do not know my letters well. I need for you to read me this.” The boy hands him a letter. “It was meant for you, but your father opened it.”_

_Enjolras sees his own name written on the back and unfolds it quickly. It is from Grantaire, penned in haste much as the one Enjolras had left for him, though longer in content. Grantaire writes of the barricade and the sorrow of parting. He mentions the boy, says his name is Gavroche and pleads Enjolras to not let him come back, to stay safely with him until the fighting has passed._

_Enjolras’ lips silently form the closing line, wrapping around the words ‘Forever yours, Grantaire’. He looks up at the boy, Gavroche, his chest so tight he fears he might stop breathing any moment._

_“You said my father has left?” demands Enjolras, already rising from the bed. “Has he left any instructions?”_

_Gavroche shakes his head. “None other than that I am to stay here and not to wake you.”_

_Enjolras quickly sheds his nightclothes and slips back into the ones he discarded earlier this evening._

_“Then I am glad you did not heed his words,” says Enjolras, forgoing cravat and jacket and ushering Gavroche from his room. “How long has he been gone?”_

_Gavroche falls into step at his side. “Not yet an hour. I was about to leave again, but ‘Aire insisted you receive the letter and I thought you might be willing to help me.”_

_“Help you,” says Enjolras, rummaging through the trunk in his father’s room in the hope of finding a weapon. His hands encounter his father’s pistol and an old hunting knife and he pockets both._

_“I do not wish for anyone else to die,” continues Gavroche, a small tremor to his voice that stills Enjolras’ movements. “I already lost my brother and ‘Aire has always treated me well. I cannot lose him, too. You love him, don’t you? You must be willing to help!”_

_Enjolras grips the boys shoulder._

_“Yes,” he says simply, for it is the truth. “Let us make haste.”_

*

The stench of the sewers hung in the air, even though they still had some distance to cross to reach its entrance. Gavroche was silent at his side, his feet light and his tread sure in a way that spoke of his familiarity with their surroundings. The streets had been filled with the national guard and Gavroche had told him in no uncertain terms that they had no chance passing through unseen, especially not Enjolras himself.

Lacking any other option, Enjolras had agreed to take an alternate passage through the sewers beneath the city, the urgency sitting so deeply in his bones that there was little to nothing he would not do to reach Grantaire and his father in time. Gavroche assured him he had been to the sewers plenty of times with his brother and Enjolras could do nothing but trust his word.

At the entrance itself, the stench was all but unbearable and Enjolras did his best to stop breathing through his nose. His stomach was turning unpleasantly and it was only desperation that kept him from emptying his stomach.

They set off at a quick pace, though it soon became clear that the filth was so deep in parts that Gavroche could not pass through unaided. Without another words, Enjolras handed the pistol to Gavroche for the boy to keep dry and functional, and indicated he should climb onto Enjolras’ back. Gavroche did with a practiced movement that showed he had done the same many times before and his grip, although secure, did not impede Enjolras in any way.

Despite Gavroche being little and weighing next to nothing, Enjolras’ back and arms were soon aching and it was almost impossible to see anything at all in the darkness. A fact Enjolras was grateful for in part, for even though his nose had numbed mostly to the smell, he did not think he could stomach seeing whatever they were trudging through.

Enjolras did not know how long they had been down there, though it felt like years to be sure, when the sound of cannons and fighting shook the ground beneath his feet. Fear clawing at his insides, Enjolras picked up his pace and, once the filth was no more than ankle-deep, set Gavroche down and took his hand instead. They ran the last few miles.

By the time Enjolras had managed to push open the grate at the exit, the gunfire and panicked shouting of dying men was deafening and he was greeted by a world full of smoke and blood.

“Stay here,” commanded Enjolras, cutting off Gavroche’s protest with a sharp gesture of his hand. “I need you to be able to aid us quickly when we get back. Do not move from you position.”

Gavroche visibly relented and made no move to follow Enjolras as he drew his father’s pistol and carefully darted along the wall of the alley. Another canon fired and the ground shook, a wall not far from him exploded in a cloud of smoke and debris. He all but ran into his father, barely catching a glimpse of Cosette and her two closest friends dashing inside the café through its crumbling doors. He wished he could call out, but if he drew attention to them, they would all be dead.

His father lost all colour at the sight of him and Enjolras feared he might perish on the spot. Grantaire was hanging limply off his arm. Forgetting everything for a moment, Enjolras was upon him in an instant, frantically seeking a pulse with filthy hands. It was there, but barely, and there was an alarming amount of blood seeping from his shoulder.

“Enjolras!” said Papa, voice hoarse and strained. “What in the world are you doing here?”

Enjolras took Grantaire’s other side and urged his father to continue walking.

“You may scold me all you like once we are back home,” said Enjolras. “But please, Papa, let us not talk of it now. We must get Grantaire help.”

His father gifted him with a furious look, but picked up his pace and followed Enjolras’ lead. His brow furrowed further when he caught sight of Gavroche waiting for them at the entrance to the sewers. Behind them, the shouting of the guards was coming closer and there were no more words until they had managed to heave Grantaire into the pipe alongside them, his father the last to make it inside.

The silence lasted only until they took a turn, Grantaire slung over his father’s shoulder and Gavroche once more on Enjolras’ back.

“I cannot believe you were foolish enough to come here,” his father hissed, mindful of how the sound carried through the pipes.

Enjolras, nerves frayed beyond repair in the face of Grantaire’s all but lifeless body, had little patience for his father’s scolding.

“I could say the same for you,” snapped Enjolras, then took a deep breath, which he instantly regretted. He did not wish for a fight, least of all with his father who had risked his life to safe a man he did not know, all for Enjolras’ sake.

“I am an old man,” said his father.

“What nonsense,” said Enjolras, shifting Gavroche’s weight at his back. “You should have taken me along from the start!”

His father’s glare was murderous. “To watch as you indulge in heroics at the barricade? You impulsiveness does you no favours!”

“And what an example I have in you, running off without a word to me and letting me think the worst!” bit out Enjolras with all the furious desperation of the past hours. “What do you think would have become of me had I lost you both to the barricade?”

It was too dark to make out his father’s face, but his footsteps ceased and Enjolras stopped alongside him, fearing he would fly apart at any moment. His father’s hand found him in the pitch-blackness of the sewer and gently grasped the back of his neck the way he had always done ever since Enjolras had been a boy.

“All will be well now, you’ll see,” said Papa gently, his steady calm a balm to the storm raging within Enjolras. “Let us get out of this godforsaken place and find help for your Grantaire.”

That being said, Enjolras should know better than to believe such reassurances, even when they come from his father, for life had a way of changing ones path, especially when one least expects it.

It was, therefore, a surprise that should not have been a surprise at all when Inspector Javert was waiting for them at the end of the tunnel. They were all of them covered in filth and Enjolras a wreck from intense worry. He knew that wounds were supposed to be kept clean and his mind had chosen to attack him with one horror-filled thought after another, showing him Grantaire suffering from infection, showing him that it was all for naught and he would die either way from his wound.

Gavroche slid from his back and regarded the Inspector much as he had done at the barricade earlier. Javert’s gaze slid over him and Enjolras was sure that he imagined the brief flicker of relief he found there, before the inspector’s eyes were fixed on his father once more.

“I told you I would not stop,” said Javert, a sharp edge to his voice seeking to conceal a faint tremor.

“I expected no less,” said his father. “I wish only to see my son, this man and the boy off safely, then I am yours as promised.”

Enjolras jerked his head to the side, uncomprehending and sure that he was missing a whole junk - if not a lifetime - of conversation between Papa and the inspector.

“Papa,” he protested instantly, not willing to leave his father at the mercy of Javert even while every fibre of his being ached to see Grantaire brought to a doctor.

His father ignored him, a tactic that only ever succeeded in doubling Enjolras’ ire.

“Give me long enough to see this done and I shall turn myself over willingly.”

Javert looked torn, though Enjolras was not entirely sure between what. He also had no patience at all for any of this.

Finally, Javert stepped aside and lowered his pistol. “Go, before I change my mind.”

His father exchanged another look with the inspector, before they continued onwards.

They took a minute to wash the worst of the filth away where the water of the Seine was shallow enough to allow it and Gavroche set off at a run in search for a carriage that would take Grantaire to his grandfather’s home. That done, Papa helped them into the carriage and Enjolras was grateful for the opportunity to cradle Grantaire to his chest, seeking out his still steadily beating heart with the palm of his hand and caring not for the lingering stench of his hair as he pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Gavroche scrambled into the seat opposite them and his father pressed Enjolras’ hand in parting.

“Goodbye, my son.”

Had Enjolras’ mind not been so occupied, he would have noticed the heavy note in his father’s voice, but as it was he did not and the carriage set off to carry them away.

***

**Grantaire**

_Grantaire wakes to his own rooms. Not to the rundown walls of the apartment he had shared with Marius, but the clean lines of his grandfather’s house with its rich ceilings and soft sheets. His thoughts are sluggish, still, and he has trouble recalling what has transpired to get him here._

_His shoulder is on fire, his whole body wrecked with pain, and Grantaire has difficulty keeping his eyes from closing again. There is a faraway quality to his mind and he is sure the bitter taste on his tongue is the after-taste of laudanum._

_“Grantaire!” a voice cries and the bed jostles with sudden movement._

_Someone groans, hoarse and painful, and Grantaire thinks it might have been himself._

_“Gavroche,” snaps another, the words edged with sharpness and concern alike. “I have told you before to be careful.”_

_There is no more jostling after that, but a moment later Gavroche’s face peers down at him. At least Grantaire thinks it is Gavroche, because for the first time since he has known him, the boy is clean; his hair combed backwards and held with a bow at his nape as the fashion demands and his clothes new and undamaged. Though Grantaire thinks he spies traces of what might be marmalade at his collar._

_“Are you really awake this time?” says Gavroche, more of a demand than a question and sounding rather exasperated. “The last few times you did not recognise us, only kept saying Enjolras’ name although he was here the entire time. I hope the fever hasn’t killed your senses!”_

_Grantaire struggles to take all of this in, but gets stuck somewhere around the time Gavroche mentions Enjolras’ name._

_“I’m awake,” croaks Grantaire, not knowing what else to say._

_“Oh thank god,” the voice from before says and a moment later Gavroche is gently tugged away to be replaced by what is still the most beautiful face Grantaire has ever seen. “You have been nonsensical for days.”_

_Enjolras reaches out to take the cloth from his brow that Grantaire has not noticed to be there and replaces it with his hand. Grantaire leans into the touch instantly, having been so very afraid he was never to feel it again._

_“You scared me,” says Enjolras, his features softer than Grantaire remembers and his lips just as inviting._

_“And me,” pipes in Gavroche as half of his face once more appears in Grantaire’s line of sight. “Just so you know, I would not have forgiven you had you bitten dust as well!”_

_Enjolras turns his head to gift Gavroche with a glare, but it lacked the sharpness Grantaire knows he is capable of._

_“What have we said about the use of such vocabulary?”_

_Gavroche rolled his eyes. “Not to,” he says, though looks anything but chided._

_“Yes,” says Enjolras, his eyes straying to the clock against the far wall. “And I believe it is time for your classes. Surprise your teacher by being on time, for once.”_

_“But Grantaire-”_

_“Will still be here once you have attended your reading lesson,” interrupts Enjolras firmly. “Now off you go.”_

_Gavroche, clearly sulking now, bends to press a kiss to Grantaire’s cheek, careful not to touch his injured shoulder._

_“I will see you later, then,” he grumbles. “And do not dare fall asleep again! I don’t want to wait another two weeks.”_

_“I will try my best,” Grantaire promises dazedly, the dose of laudanum clearly stronger than he thought before. He can already feel his eyes fighting to close once more._

_When he re-opens them, he knows not how much time has passed, but Enjolras is still with him, seated on the edge of his bed. He is dabbing at Grantaire’s brow and face, then at his neck. Grantaire feels weak as a kitten, but fights to raise a shaking hand to cover Enjolras’ own. It is cool from the water._

_“You did not leave,” rasps Grantaire, still unable to form more than a thought at a time and hard to form any beyond the man in front of him._

_“I did not,” confirms Enjolras, using his other hand to brush damp strands from his forehead. “And I am not going to.”_

_Grantaire smiles, thinking that laudanum is nothing compared to the feelings these words stir in his chest. His eyes slide shut once more, exhaustion weighing down his every limb. He thinks he feels Enjolras lean over him, thinks he feels lips pressing against his clammy brow. His smile does not falter either way._

_*_

To say Grantaire was surprised to come face to face with Inspector Javert would be a complete understatement. The inspector was out of uniform, dressed instead in a plain waistcoat and strictly tied cravat. He looked as though he had lost weight since the last time Grantaire had seen him with a noose tied around his neck and though his colour was healthy, it was clear he must have recently suffered a severe illness. Grantaire knew the signs well enough from his own body.

“Inspector,” said Grantaire, more as an exclamation of incredibility rather than a greeting.

Javert looked as severe as ever and his posture was equally rigid. 

“I am no longer with the police, Monsieur,” said Javert curtly and stepped aside to let him into the apartment. “Val-Monsieur Fauchelevent is presently not at home, though he should return shortly should you wish to wait.”

Grantaire eyed what was visible of the room behind the other man. It looked innocently enough were it not for the looming presence of Inspector Javert in the doorway.

Putting his discomfort aside as best he could, Grantaire stepped over the threshold and hung his hat at the stand in the hallway. He had made an effort to look presentable to Enjolras’ father, his nerves taunt despite the knowledge that Monsieur Fauchelevent had already approved of their match.

Javert led the way into the kitchen.

“Do you care for some tea,” asked Javert, his tone as stiff as his back as he filled a kettle before Grantaire could politely decline.

On second thought, it was rather preferable not to squirm about on his chair beneath Javert’s intent stare and Grantaire felt instantly grateful for the other man’s desire to make tea, seeing as it successfully diverted his attention. Javert was practiced in the art, it seemed, and moved as only someone who was indeed at home here could. Did Enjolras know that his father was sharing lodgings with the police inspector they had spent the better part of their lives running from? Grantaire doubted it, or at least he hoped Enjolras would have deemed the information important enough to share with him had he indeed known.

Javert placed a steaming cup in front of Grantaire and settled down with his own across from him. The following silence was rather suffocating, and though Grantaire was not usually easily silenced, he would rather avoid the risk of reminding Javert that he had been part of a group of revolutionaries that had tied him up in the back of a tavern.

At the thought of his friends, Grantaire’s mood darkened and he had to swallow around a suddenly tight throat. He had visited the Musain three weeks ago and doubted he would be able to do so again. The place had looked deserted, most of the furniture gone from where it had been sacrificed for the barricade and all that remained a few empty chairs and empty tables. It had almost been too much to bear.

Enjolras had been with him, though thankfully Gavroche had not known of his plan and had stayed with his teacher at home. There had been nothing Grantaire could have taken as a token and he had never been close enough with the group to know of the locations of their apartments apart from the one he had shared with Marius. Grantaire had been there already, emptying it of the few possessions they had both had, including several drawings of Cosette he had done at Marius’ pleading. He had not yet managed to look at them, nor at any of his other drawings depicting his friends. He had given them to Enjolras for safe keeping.

Grantaire was torn from his thoughts when the front door opened and closed. Monsieur Fauchelevent stepped into the kitchen a moment later, carrying a basket where the long end of a fresh loaf of bread was sticking out. Grantaire scrambled to his feet. Javert remained seated, instead eyeing the bread with a peculiar look. Monsieur Fauchelevent seemed to be trying very intently not to laugh and Grantaire wondered what exactly he had missed in this particular interaction.

Monsieur Fauchelevent deposited the basket on one of the counters, before walking over to give Grantaire’s hand a warm shake.

“It is good to see you up, Grantaire. You look well.”

“I feel well, thank you,” said Grantaire as he cast a fleeting glance in Javert’s direction. “I wished to thank you once more for all you have done for me. And for your support of my intentions towards your son.”

Monsieur Fauchelevent nodded, though his expression had turned slightly grave.

“Javert,” he addressed the inspector, his tone warm and familiar. “Would you be so kind as to excuse us for a moment.”

Javert gave him a sharp look, though obediently rose to his feet.

“Of course,” said Javert and, fixing Grantaire with one last glare, departed with a stiff bow of formality.

Monsieur Fauchelevent took the seat Javert had vacated and bid Grantaire to re-take his own

“It is good of you to have come, for there is an urgent matter I wish to discuss with you.”

Grantaire did his best not to be instantly filled with dread, though it was a hard feat in the face of recent events.

“Of course, Monsieur, if there is any way in which I could assist you, I would do so gladly. I have no hopes of repaying my debt to you as it is.”

Monsieur Fauchelevent shook his head. “You owe me nothing more than the assurance that you will take good care of my son, although I already know that you intend to. And then there is one more thing I would ask of you.” 

The other man looked suddenly older, far closer to his actual years than just a moment ago. Grantaire dreaded the continuation of his speech. 

“I would like for you to tell Enjolras that I have left for a journey and am sorry not to attend your wedding.”

Grantaire’s eyes widened. “But, Monsieur-”

Monsieur Fauchelevent held up his hand and Grantaire fell silent.

“I cannot risk his reputation by staying,” he went on. “For my name is not Ultime Fauchelevent, but Jean Valjean and I am an ex-convict. Tell me, how much has Enjolras told you about his past?”

Grantaire frowned, not terribly surprised at this particular relevation.

“He has told me that you moved lodgings often, that Inspector Javert hunted you across the years. He also told me you would not speak to him of your past.” Grantaire paused briefly, before leaning in slightly closer across the table. He very much wished for some wine, but knew better than to ask for it. “If you will permit me an indiscreet observation; do you think it wise to house the man after all he has done to you?”

Fauchelevent - no it was Valjean now, Grantaire supposed - gave a deep sigh.

“I understand your scepticism and you do well to voice it, however you need not worry about Javert. We have settled our differences, at least as far as we are able, and he is no longer with the police. Nevertheless, I do not want to put Enjolras at risk by staying. It is for the best that I go.”

Monsieur Valjean looked grieved at this admission and Grantaire did not want to think of the extent of Enjolras’ sorrow should his father leave never to return.

“Monsieur,” said Grantaire firmly. “I cannot let you do this, Enjolras would never forgive either of us. And I can assure you that whatever it is you did, he will stand by you.”

Valjean sighed once more, looking as though the whole world was weighed on his shoulders.

“I do not doubt his love for me,” he said. “I fear for him, as I always have. I have only sought to protect him, ever since his mother entrusted me to care for him.”

Grantaire dared to reach out and briefly press the other man’s hand.

“And he needs your care still. With all the years that have gone and with your certainty that Inspector Javert is no longer a danger to you, I believe it is time to leave the past behind.”

“You are a good man, Grantaire,” said Valjean. “I could not imagine another better suited for my son.”

Grantaire had trouble containing his smile.

*

“Did you know that you father is lodging with Inspector Javert?”

The book slid from Enjolras’ fingers and landed with a muffled sound. Grantaire bent to retrieve it as Enjolras regarded him with wide eyes.

“Pardon? Do you care to repeat that?”

Grantaire looked at the title of the book and let loose a sigh, momentarily distracted.

“Have I not told you to restrict reading banned literature to your own rooms? If my grandfather sees you with Rousseau he will surely perish on the spot. Tell me you do not have Voltaire lying somewhere around the sitting room.”

Enjolras snatched back his book, looking not the least bit contrite.

“There will be ample time to discuss my taste in literature after you tell me what you meant by saying that my father is sharing lodgings with Javert.”

Grantaire took a seat beside him on the chaise-lounge. 

“Exactly what I said, my dear. I have just returned from a visit there and it was the inspector who opened the door for me. Or rather, I should not call him inspector any longer, for they both assured me that Javert is no longer with the police. Apparently he had fallen incredibly ill and your father took him in.”

Enjolras discarded his book and looked almost as though he wanted to tear his hair out, a fact Grantaire could not allow and so grasped his hand in his own.

“I cannot believe him,” burst out Enjolras. “Of all the things! And here I thought Papa cannot become more of a saint! Or maybe I should say more of a fool!”

Visibly incensed now, Enjolras leapt from the chaise-lounge in favour of pacing in front of Grantaire, who followed the to and fro with barely contained amusement.

“Surely it is not as bad as all that,” said Grantaire, unable to keep from needling Enjolras, having found that he very much enjoyed seeing him lose his tightly controlled composure. “As a matter of fact, I believe they have grown quite…close.”

Enjolras whirled around to fix him with a look of outrage.

“Grantaire!” he cried. “Surely you do not mean this the way it sounded!”

Grantaire fought not to laugh and instead put on a show of frowning in contemplation.

“I cannot be sure, but I think we might find out soon. Your father invited us for dinner.”

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose, a charming flush staining his usually pale face. Unable to resist, Grantaire rose from his seat and grasped Enjolras’ hand once more, before leaning in to press a kiss to his flaming cheek. Enjolras pushed at him in irritation, though as soon as Grantaire backed away Enjolras had wrapped his arms around his neck to keep him close.

“If I find that you are using this information to tease me, you will surely regret it.”

Grantaire grasped his hips and brought their bodies together, leaning in to kiss the other cheek.

“I would not dare,” murmured Grantaire, taking the opportunity to bury his nose in Enjolras’ golden locks.

Enjolras hit his shoulder, though made no move to remove himself from Grantaire’s arms.

“Do not think you can sweet-talk me!” demanded Enjolras. “I know very well that you seek to see me blush whenever possible and I have told you I do not stand for it.”

“Desist looking so beautiful and I may attempt to restrain myself,” said Grantaire into Enjolras’ hair, pressing them even closer together.

Enjolras huffed, though tangled one of his delicate hands in Grantaire’s hair and cradled him close.

“I have no control over the way I look, Grantaire.”

Grantaire hummed and drew back enough to gently cup Enjolras’ face between his palms.

“No, I suppose you don’t,” muttered Grantaire, before leaning in to steal a kiss.

Enjolras made a soft sound that immediately sent heat pooling in Grantaire’s stomach and he could not resist pressing closer. Enjolras did not object, instead tightening his grip on Grantaire and surging forward to deepen the kiss.

They had only done this a few times before and never quite this intently, Grantaire usually set on keeping their kisses soft and Enjolras had been unwilling to demand anything while Grantaire had still been recovering or in mourning over his friends. But now, with a few months between that terrifying night and the present day and with their engagement official, Grantaire did not think himself strong enough to resist any longer.

Enjolras’ mouth was soft and warm and he tasted faintly of the marmalade Gavroche always had for breakfast. Grantaire could not contain a soft moan, muffled as it was between their lips, and licked deeper. He felt Enjolras shift against him, pushing closer.

He was just contemplating moving them back to the chaise-lounge, when a sound from the door broke them apart.

Enjolras was flushed and his lips wet and red from Grantaire’s kisses. Grantaire, not for the first time, thought he looked like a god and had much of a mind to worship him like one for the rest of their days.

Gavroche noisily cleared his throat.

“If you are quite finished I would like some help with my homework.”

Enjolras shot him one of his softened glares. “I believe we have talked about the concept of knocking before.”

Gavroche shrugged, as ever completely untouched by the scolding and instead crossed the room at a run and thrust the book he had been carrying into Grantaire’s hands.

“It is good you are here,” said the boy and settled on the sofa. “Enjolras is much too strict with me.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow and took a seat at Gavroche’s side while Enjolras did the same on the opposite end.

“I am merely trying to make you understand that if you do not dedicate yourself to your studies you will fail to progress,” said Enjolras, his colouring back to his marble paleness. He brushed the end of his golden ponytail over his shoulder. “Do you wish to be forever stuck on the same lesson?”

Gavroche sent a glare of his own and Grantaire thought it had started to look a little like Enjolras’ after being subject to it for the past months.

“I never much enjoyed those lessons myself, so I can understand your boredom,” said Grantaire and ignored Enjolras’ outraged call of his name as he went on. “But I agree that it is even more boring if you do not advance. At least this way, you’ll know that it will be over at some point.”

Enjolras shot him a look. “That is really not the reason why one should apply themselves to their studies. Education is important and the first step to reforming society.”

Grantaire shook his head and let loose an exasperated sigh. “I knew you were reading Voltaire.”

Enjolras did not dignify that with an answer, instead took the book from Grantaire - to Gavroche’s chagrin - and handed it to the boy with a silent instruction to read out loud. Gavroche set to it with a sullen face and Grantaire looked at the two of them with unmasked affection.

Despite Enjolras’ words, they both knew that Gavroche had improved a lot over the past months and was a quick study despite his reluctance. It was good to see him so happy and well-fed for once and Grantaire knew he had become attached to them - Enjolras especially, even though he would never say so.

Leaning back against the sofa, Grantaire found Enjolras’ hand that was resting on the cushions behind Gavroche’s head and slid their fingers together. They exchanged a brief smile and when Gavroche shifted slightly a few moments later, Grantaire accommodated him easily and let him lean against his chest as he turned the page and carried on reading.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> In case you haven't seen it yet, I'm taking prompts. [Details/Rules are here!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/882344/)
> 
> As promised, you can vote for what comes next, here is your choice of three (prompts shortened in my own words to keep it simple):
> 
> 1\. an incest prompt where they are reincarnated as siblings  
> 2\. younger!R and older!Enjolras  
> 3\. slightly creepy stalker!Enjolras obsessed with celebrity!R
> 
> You can vote within 24h of the posting of the last fill, so off you go :)!


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